


Criptych

by Sphealrical



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Excoriation/Dermatillomania, Gen, Loss of Control, Loss of Identity, Mental Breakdown, Post-The Watcher's Crown (The Magnus Archives), Self-Mutilation, Spoilers, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, i poured my whole being into this i really hope y'all like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24765790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sphealrical/pseuds/Sphealrical
Summary: Cryptic (adj) - having a meaning that is mysterious or obscure.“Ptych-” (root, archaic) - Greek root meaning “fold” or “layer”. Often used in:Triptych (n) - an art piece in three consecutive parts.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	1. The Victim

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to those who beta-d this for me. It was difficult to ask for people to read through this, and your input is invaluable.

[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS]

BRENTON: Does it… Do we have to talk here?

JON: What’s wrong with here?

BRENTON: It’s just… I don’t trust books anymore. I know that seems odd, but—

JON: Ah! Okay. I think I know what this’ll be about. To start with, do you know where the Leitner is? We might be able to—

BRENTON: I’m— I’m sorry, the what?

JON: The book. From the library of Jurgen Leitner?

BRENTON: I’m sorry?

JON: Oh… nothing. The apology’s mine; it seems I jumped the gun a bit. Why don’t you, uh… start from the beginning.

BRENTON: ...Okay. It’s not any one specific book, the way it sounds like your thing is. From what I saw, it seemed like any text worked? Street signs, flyers… hell, if it weren’t made of paper I’d think it could crawl out of screens like that miss from _The Ring._

JON: “It”? What do you mean by “it”?

BRENTON: (sounds of frustration) Sorry. Getting ahead of myself again.

JON: That’s quite alright. Here, allow me to—

JON: (directly into tape recorder) Statement of Brenton Jacobsby. Regarding—

BRENTON: The fate of my roommate, Devon.

JON: Last name?

BRENTON: Baarschers.

JON: Regarding the fate of his roommate, Devon Baarschers. Statement taken directly from subject. Statement begins.

BRENTON: I’m afraid I don’t have a lot to tell. It happened a fair bit ago, but I just… it keeps gnawing at me. Feels like I should tell someone? And the police… I’m not sure what they could do with this, to be honest.

So, uh… kind of a convoluted start, this one. My roommate’s brother’s friend goes missing. That’s a shame, of course. I’m sad to hear it. Then a semester later, it’s the roommate’s brother. That hits a lot closer to home—I’m a brother too, and I can’t imagine.

Now, uh… you’ve been to university, I’m sure. Work for the Magnus _Institute_ and all that, at least. You probably know how housing works, but for record’s sake ours pairs roommates up by what they study. Devon and I, we were both liberal arts. He took creative writing courses, but my focus is literary analysis.

So, that’s kinda what you need to know. Brother’s friend, brother. Roommate writes; I don’t. I promise this’s all relevant.

Well, obviously, after the brother disappears, Devon’s beside himself. His classes give him leave, but that just gives him more time to wait for phone calls. Apparently, when someone goes missing, your whole life becomes phone calls. Seemed to be about the only thing he ever did, those days. His parents lived too far away, so he didn’t go back to theirs. I tried to stay with him so he wouldn’t be alone, but my professors weren’t as empathetic to the “roommate of the missing person’s family” situation. Before it all, I’d usually catch him writing snippets in these little journals he carried around or his laptop, but every time I came home to the uni hall, he’d either be on his cell or near it.

Then they found the both of them.

I saw it on my news app before he did. Recognized their last name. Recovered the bodies from the woods, but apparently animals had already got to them. Wasn’t much left to get evidence from. Nasty shit. I found a site with a more… censored report before I handed it over for him to read. Let him cry on my shoulder through the night. Took the phone calls so he could sleep. Not sure if he actually got any rest, but I figured he should at least try.

A month or so later, he’s still only getting worse. I haven’t seen him even touch a pen since I don’t know how long. I ask him “didn’t some writers get their feelings straight with poems and shit?” Says he can’t. I don’t press. I’m— At this point, I’m just throwing shit that might help at the wall to see if anything’ll stick.

Then we get the guy in the three piece suit knocking on our door.

Not suspicious in and of itself. We still got a lot of visitors, those days, but mostly people I recognized too, and not a lot of suits. Says he’s carrying out Will’s—Devon’s brother—carrying out his, uh… well., Will’s will. Gives Devon a box. Leaves.

Now, I’m immediately suspicious. First off, Devon’s a first year in university, and _he_ doesn’t have a will. What’s his little brother doing with one? Second, what kinda… will-carrier-outer just dumps the stuff and fucks off? Aren’t they supposed to… I don’t know… say something? Give a few words? _Read_ the damn thing? Third, I’m s’posed to believe Will only left his only brother a shoebox’s worth of let— oh, it was full of letters and writings, by the way—out of everything? Last, it’s been a month since they found him, and three weeks since the funeral. I don’t know how funeral shit works, but there’s no way it should’ve taken that long.

I’ve had a fair bit to think about what felt off, though. At the time, I didn’t have words for what I was so worked up about. Hindsight, twenty-twenty, all that. And Devon looked so happy. Well, happy in that weird way that grief does it. So I let it be.

Devon becomes… _obsessed_ with the stuff Will’s written. Every time I come back from class, he’s in there staring at one letter or another. I ask him once if I can read some, but he gets all sober. Tells me it’s personal. I wouldn’t get it.

Tells me a few days in: he didn’t know his brother liked to write, apparently. It’s— I figure it’s this way for them to connect, and he’s worried that me and my lit analysis tendencies would sully it. He says they make him want to write again. I respect that. I let it be.

That’s about when the jitters started. Devon’s never been a statue, but he could be still when he was working. Not anymore, though. His legs tap and shake like he’s giving a speech. He’d drum his fingers constantly. Couldn’t seem to settle in his own skin anymore.

He’s got his nose buried in his journals again. If he’s not reading, he’s writing. That made me relieved, actually. Felt like things were looking up for him.

Then, a week or so later, came the questions. Interrogations, I guess. He kept… _accusing_ me of shit. Looking in the box when he wasn’t there. Touching his shit. He’d ask what I was reading and quiz me on it. If he got an answer he didn’t like, he’d bolt. He never seemed angry, weird as that sounds. Just… jittery, I guess.

One day, he asks what I’m doing. I think “here we go again”, but when I look, he’s got redeye like he’s near-sobbing. He’s scratching at the back of his hand, and he asks me if I can help him.

“Sure, mate,” I say.

He holds out his hand. “What do you see?” he asks me.

I look. I look again. I— the way he asked left a real serious tension in the room, so I’m looking as hard as I can. It’s no use, though. Whatever I’m supposed to see, I don’t.

“Your hand,” I settle on.

It’s never “silent” in the uni halls, but for the couple blinks after, it sure felt that way. I’d assumed it was one of those… lead-up-type rhetorical questions, but the more we waited, the less sure I was about that.

“Is there something I should be seeing?” I ask as nicely as I can.

He takes a shuddering breath, sobs, and out comes the waterworks. Inconsolable. He actually won’t even let me hug him.

'Course, I don’t know what to think. My first thought is he’s gotten himself mixed up bad in some drug shit. Jittery, paranoid, scratching like crazy, don’t know what else he thought I’d think. I realize now that it could’ve been the grief going wonky on him—grief’s weird—but I’ve never been the brightest bulb in the broom closet.

I ask him if there’s something going on.

He goes all quiet.

“Hey,” I say, “did you get mixed up in something?” I don’t— you hear me, I don’t speak very loud.

He nods. Says: “I… guess.”

I don’t know how to take the latter, but the nod’s the part I’m worried about. I ask him if I need to call someone. The police, maybe.

He kinda just scoffs. “If only it were illegal,” he says, “maybe then they could help.”

Which is a real stupid answer. Makes no sense, obnoxiously cryptic. But it catches the attention. I ask him what the hell that means, but he’s backing away, outta it. “Nevermind,” he’s repeating. “Nevermind nevermind. Don’t worry about it.”

I try to say “I’m worried about it” but he cuts me off. “Nevermind nevermind.” Leaves again.

Whatever. Can’t stay away forever, right? Best to let him get it out of his system. I go back to my schoolwork while I wait for him. We’re reading _A Monster Calls_ by Patrick Ness. It’s not the longest book that class assigned, but… okay all I’m gonna say is I’m a brother, and we’re gonna leave it at that, but anyway, it’s taking longer than usual for me to get through because of it and everything.

He gets back. I try to ask him, but he— It’s like I’m not even there. He turns the lights out and goes straight to bed.

I… this is gonna seem weird, for the first thing I do, but I check his pulse—seems normal. Devon doesn’t even react when I grab his wrist. But when I’m finished with that, I see some kinda wound peeking out from under the edges of his pushed up sleeve. I… I’m not sure what possessed me. I help ease the jacket off of him—he’s dead to the world, but he’s breathing and his pulse is normal and I figure one worrying thing at a time—his arms are _covered_ in these _deep_ scratch marks. I mean, like… like they could’ve been pinstripes. They look painful.

I figure… I think okay, I can either try to wake him up now, or I can let him get his rest and maybe… maybe he’ll be more up for a chat in the morning. If he won’t talk about it, it’s not like I can make him, right? I turn out the lights, start getting ready for bed. I don’t like to turn the lights on if I don’t have to when I’m moving about at night. I can usually see fine enough without, and I hate the adjustment period more than being in the dark. So I do my business and brush my teeth and all that with the lights off.

Maybe that’s why the… _it_ thought it was in the clear? I don’t know. But that’s…

Point is, _it_ didn’t realize I was awake or there or what have you, so that’s when I met… well, _it._

As soon as I step outta the bathroom, I hear rustling. Like, uh… like the wind’s catching on the edges of a book and it’s flipping pages like mad.

Next thing I know, there’s a bloody… a monster, just standing there, in the middle of our room.

I hate saying that. “A monster”. Feels a bit childish. It’s why I kept saying “it”, but I was gonna have to say it eventually.

Thing’s fancy paper cream colored. It’s got what looks like scribbles all over it which look familiar, but keep in mind, it was dark, so I couldn’t really see clearly. The general figure was human-like, but it… it didn’t have a face. And it tapered in weird places, like the middle of one of its biceps, and it had whole chunks ripped out of it. If I— I was just about to say “if I didn’t know better”, but— (FRUSTRATED SIGH) God, I wish Devon were here. Words were _his_ thing. Uh… it looked like how zombies have bits of them bitten off or peeled away, but it— I don’t think it was a zombie. Seemed too… smart? For that?

It moves slow, not like it’s gotta, but like it’s tryna be careful, and as it moves, it makes this crinkling. It’s tryna be quiet, making its way from the middle of the room over to— to Devon’s bed.

It… God, why didn’t I _do_ anything? Why did I… It swept his bangs off his forehead, first. Felt like for a fever with the back of its hand. Pet his hair.

Then, it… it moved his arm out from under the sheets. Holds it up close to its… face? It didn’t have a face, remember, just more of that paper stuff, but on a person it’d be where the eyes are. It’s… it’s like a doctor, almost. Moving his limbs this way and that, tryna get a good look. Smooths its thumbs over the scratches.

When it’s had an eyeful, it gently rests Devon’s arm back on the bed. Pets his hair again. Tucks him in, for God’s sake. Then, fast as a dancer, it pivots.

It sees me. I don’t know how I know that—thing didn’t have eyes, for God’s sake—but I _knew_ it was “looking” right at me, and… My legs give out. I got this pesky habit, with fight or flight, where my legs just fuckin' give out. Useful, right?

Lucky for me, it flinches. Backs away, caught. It puts its hands up, like I’m police. Like _I_ scared _it._

I glance to Devon, I don’t know why, and it turns its head and spots him too. The thing flinches again and reaches for one of its raised arms with the other one, picking at it like there’s a bug bite.

Its… “nails” catch, or whatever, and it… It rips its own bloody skin off. Right there in front of me. Just scritches like it’s tryna get under a sticker, and then _rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp,_ peels a whole strip of itself off. Slaps it on the fucking wall. Next thing I know, _thp thp thp thp thp thp,_ that same rustling. Its whole arm’s unwinding itself like a God damn— a, a slinky? Maybe? And slithering in the peeled off strip. It’s gone in seconds.

I kinda just… breathe. Stare. The thing it slapped on the wall is still there.

Says—you’ll never believe this—it says: And if no one sees you, are you really there at all? That’s part of the bloody— of _A Monster Calls._ I’d just read that bit.

I don’t know when I’d gotten my legs under me again, but next thing I know, I’m stepping forward, towards the quote. I just… I wanted to know what the hell it _was._ That it was really there and not my imagination playing tricks on me, so I reached out.

Devon bellows. I hadn’t even realized he’d woken up, but he screams loud enough to wake the dead. “Don’t touch it!” Scares the absolute shit out of me, and with my legs— I fall away.

He vaults over my head and sprints full-force to the wall, slamming just to the side of it.

Devon breathes out a shaky sigh, then. Like he’s… I don’t know. He… can’t quite believe it either. He traces his fingertips over the words like a, uh… damn, this really was more Devon’s thing. Like. Fondly. Like… a long-lost… something. Like the same look he’d get reading the letters from Will’s box.

He strips off his shirt, right there, and presses himself to the wall. That’s when I— I really started to realize how fucked up he was. He’d gotten… words tattooed all over his back, it looked like. I know… I know _now_ it wasn’t a tattoo, but… well, I’ll get there. Anyway, the words. Black as pitch up near the shoulders, but the closer they got to the scratches on his forearms, the more faded they were colored.

“Devon?” I started, but he cut me off.

“Will came back, didn’t he?” he asks.

He turns around, and…

Okay, so, the words that the thing left, those were still on the wall, but when Devon turned around they also were… I could make out the letters of the same quote on his chest, between the kerning of his new tattoo. Like a… a temporary tattoo that came out backwards? No, no more like… when you close a page before the ink’s dry, and it leaves an imprint on the opposite side.

“Will,” he repeated. “They brought more of his words for me.” He smiled down at his chest. “He’s coming back, Brenton.”

Leaves the room like he’s still half-asleep.

I can’t, uh… I don’t know how long I stayed sitting on the floor, after that. I kept… watching the quote on the wall. Waiting. To wake up, or… or for the letters to do something else. Maybe even for it to come back? But, uh… I wasn’t dreaming, and it didn’t. Eventually, I— I should’ve probably called someone, but the simple fact of the matter is, I didn’t. I went to bed when I could make myself. Worst thing is, it wasn’t even hard to fall asleep. Dropped off right away. When I look back, that’s the part I feel guiltiest about. I don’t know why. Grief’s weird.

I didn’t see Devon a lot after that, but I also… I’ll admit I wasn’t really looking. I— It freaked me out. There was a bloody— a— a monster standing over him. _Clearly_ stalking him. One that could, could disappear into quotes and rip its skin off. I’ve seen… I— I didn’t want any part of it. Of whatever was happening. To him. I’d see him in passing, though, and every time his, uh… the tattoo got worse. Came down his other arm and both legs.

I spent a lot of time during midterms just staring at the wall. The words faded after the first week, but I could tell you exactly where each letter was. You don’t just forget something like that, y’know?

I tried putting a poster up to stop myself, but he tore it down. That’s not a euphemism. I woke up to the ripping. Thought that it was, uh…

Just… bad night, all around. Lot of screaming, between us.

I spent the entire next day away. Studied in the canteen, even paid for a hotel for the night.

Turns out, a good night of sleep? Does wonders. I felt so much better the next day. Set out to, uh…

Sorry, give me a minute.

Guess it doesn’t really matter what I meant to do, huh?

I get back to the dorm we shared, and… and Devon’s sitting in the middle of the… of the carpet. Fresh as the day he was born, so I can… First thing I saw was the tattoo, right? Completely illegible at this point. The words overlapped on his skin ‘til some bits were no better than black blocks, but at the same time, less of him was covered, the fading into the skin starting much further away from his arm than I remembered.

I’m not sure why I noticed that first, given the uh… all the blood. It’s the smell that snapped me out of trying to read it. That… y’know people say it’s coppery? I wish it had smelled coppery in there. Least that would’ve made sense. All I could pick up was… was permanent marker.

Then, I hear him. Biting. Gnawing at his arm, the one he showed me forever before, like— like a… a wolf with its paw in a trap? So I’m screaming at him, obviously, tryna pull it outta his damn mouth. He has the gall— spits out… the— the blood and scraps of skin and muscle and says it’s okay. I go “what’s fucking okay about biting your bloody arm off?”

Crazy bastard laughs— actually laughs. Tells me “nah, mate. You got it all wrong.” Get this— fucker says: “This ain’t my arm.” Says: “I gotta get this off so I can get Will’s words out again.” Gestures to his chest and the visible words. “They’re stuck, Brenton. Under all this skin. I need to get them out.”

Well obviously I dial 999 because that’s the maddest shite I ever heard. Between trying to stay on the phone with the operator and wrestling to keep him from eating his damned self… let’s just say I had to get treated for a lot of bite marks.

He didn’t come back to Uni for a while. Not sure if he ever did before…

[BRENTON TAKES A DEEP BREATH IN, AND LETS IT OUT IN A SIGH]

BRENTON: I’m the, uh… I’m the one who found Devon. Walked back in my dorm from my first final, and just… there he was. On the floor.

Remember the whole reason that he got carted away? The one I told you about a minute or so ago? Yeah.

Official cause of death ended up being blood loss from the, uh… the scratches and bites and…

BRENTON: (voice breaking) I’m sorry.

JON: Take your time.

BRENTON: He didn’t have that… that tattoo anymore. I know, I know it’s not a tattoo, but I don’t know what the hell else to call it. The words were totally gone, so the… he’d done damage all over his body. Instead of just his arm. Anywhere his nails and teeth and… and the fountain-tip pen… and the scissors… anywhere he could get to.

Looked like…

Well, like animals had already gotten to him.

[A LONG PAUSE.]

BRENTON: (watery laugh) Good news, though. The rumors are true. If your roommate dies in your suite, you uh… your professors give you A’s on your finals.

JON: I’m sorry.

BRENTON: It’s— Don’t. Just…

BRENTON: I haven’t seen that paper thing again. Not since… not since the one time, but I… Every time I try to tell someone, it…

JON: I believe you.

BRENTON: P— Pardon?

JON: I believe you. I think you really saw this thing, and that it most likely had a direct cause in your roommate’s death.

[A PAUSE]

BRENTON: (sincerely) Thank you.

JON: Statement ends.

[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS]

* * *

[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS]

JON: Supplemental.

JON: It seems rather obvious to me that this being Mr. Jacobsby encountered is a creature of the Spiral. If it weren’t clear enough from his questioning his own sanity, the imagery of it “unwinding” and being analogous to a “slinky” would solidify my theory. One can only hope that Mike in his apparent (A SATISFIED HUM) _crewsade_ against beings of the Spiral has already dealt with the matter, but I’m not holding out hope that ‘lightning strikes twice’, as it were.

JON: For now, I’ll have to add it to the list, and hope that it isn’t actively malicious. I’m rather loathe to have _more_ things targeting me in the midst of my investigations into the staff.

JON: End suppl—

JON: Wait.

[A PAUSE]

JON: Ah, damn, I forgot the— the date. Where did I put the—

[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS]


	2. The Lexicographer

[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS]

JON: There’s a box on my desk.

JON: Someone— Someone has written on the lid, “DANGER: do not allow contents to come into contact with bare skin”. Um…

[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS]

* * *

[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS]

JON: For future reference, artefact storage needs to install better locks on their supply closet if they’re going to be so stringent on their lending policy for gloves.

JON: Back to the matter at hand, I’ve opened the box. Inside appears to be…

[CRINKLING AS CONTENTS ARE REMOVED]

JON: A scroll of parchment? But it appears to have been ripped apart and meticulously sewn back together repeatedly. It’s quite a thick scroll as well.

JON: It feels… hm.

JON: It appears someone has delivered me today’s statement.

JON: Well, let’s not delay any longer, then. Statement of… the parchment scroll left in a box on my desk. Taken directly from… scroll, which I can only assume was hand-delivered by its owner, as there doesn’t appear to be a shipping address anywhere on it. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.

JON: Statement begins.

It itches, Archivist: the words. Not all of them, but the important ones.

I’ve always had this itch, or something like it. Even at its calmest, splotches of red and a webbing of dry cracks could be found on the inside of my left elbow. My doctors—so many of my early memories involve doctors—called it “eczema,” and they gave me lotions and oils and creams that burned the itch at the root. The burning made me itchy. Scratching made me need lotion. I’ve seen my own blood nearly every day of my life, thanks to this itch of mine. It took me a long time to realize that was strange.

I’ve never been afraid or disquieted by my itch. At its worst, it frustrated me. I could tear the skin away into a crater of blood and nerves, and _still_ it would itch. I would dig tweezer ends a centimeter in to the dead skin at my heel to get to the nerve-filled parts. I learned early on to try and edge my fingernails around scabs and painful welts, but nothing gets the roar to silence quite like the drag of a scratch. I read in a book, once, that people with eczema would sometimes turn the shower water on its hottest setting, and found the rising of blood to the surface of the skin immensely satisfying. This was phrased as a dangerous habit, a form of self-mutilation maybe, but the ecstasy I felt the first time my nerves sang near-boiling is a joy even sex could probably never rival, even if it had had the time to try before I turned.

One would think transcending into a servant of a metaphysical being of fear would take away such carnal cravings. Maybe, to the Spiral, the itch is as much a part of my identity as the words. They like for us to have our identities; I assume personality flavors our fear, like grape versus strawberry jam. Two people shrieking at the same phrase will suffer very different panics despite their common cause.

But, surely, you must already know that.

Please excuse my rambling. In some ways, I can’t help being verbose. Beyond that, I so rarely get the chance to express myself anymore. I know you’ve gotten a statement about one of my victims. Does Devon ring a bell? I’m not actually quite sure how much time has passed since I claimed him; the words show up on their own schedule, and no one else’s. Regardless, I wanted to offer my side of the story, from the beginning.

In my memories, I am named Vaughan. That’s a lie, but not really. I named myself Vaughan in college, and while not everyone agreed, the people who matter did. Thus, I was named Vaughan. I was American. Texan.

When I was a senior in college, I chose to pursue a career in writing instead of the more stable track I had been preparing myself for. It was a struggle, even before my choice, to pay attention when there were so many words and stories begging to be written. In contrast: the euphoria of a well-turned phrase is, bar none, the closest to a spiritual and emotional enlightenment I’ve ever felt.

Past the prologue, it’s a tale old enough to be dull. The writing was satisfying, but the pay, not nearly enough to live by. My parents offered their home and their help, and without the privilege of their support, I would not have even had a chance to pursue my dreams.

I took whatever work was offered, so long as it paid anything. I told myself: as long as I can find work, I can make it. All I needed for the full career was a fleshed-out experience section on my resume. I took a lot of work for pay that I’m not proud of. I knew that underselling myself hurt every writer, normalized horrific wages for the work. I was nearly every beginner in the field: caught between the rock of needing money to survive and the hard place of being a scab for a unionless group. Jobs that could pay went to writers that had work to show and knew how to find it.

I’m being redundant at this point, but I need to make it clear why I took the job. Yes, I knew it was suspicious. Yes, I imagined there’d be a catch at some point. People don’t give away salaries to the inexperienced when they’re trying to make a fair play, and I was nowhere near qualified enough.

You understand; don’t you, Archivist? You know there’s something you’re missing, but you’re so relieved that you’ve cleared a hurdle that you think “surely, whatever lies ahead, I can clear that hurdle too.” But the next jump they want you to make is the pole vault, and everyone who can hand you the equipment is betting on you to lose.

If you can’t relate, ask your assistants. I know one of them does.

My new title was lead lexicographer for some dictionary. The name of the place doesn’t matter, and it was probably fake anyway. It’s the most boring, mundane thing you could ever think of for a writer to do.

The job was every stereotype about a nearly-outdated company you could think of. The building layout didn’t make sense. It was brownstone, and technically two buildings that connected on the second, fifth, and basement levels, but only one of them had a door to the street. You could get lost in there for hours. Everything we used was archaic: breaking all the time, _especially_ the computers, which were always getting all these weird fucking pop-ups and viruses. I’m pretty sure my staff spent half their day looking at porn. More often than not, I’d get so fed up with the tech stuff, I’d just write out the definitions by hand.

And then there were the _rules._ I couldn’t take papers out of work. If an entire day went by where our computers were down, I’d have to scan the definitions onto a CD to take with me, except our scanners were ancient too, so I had to retype everything using the typewriters in the corner for them to be able to pick it up.

That’s a four-step ordeal just to take stuff _home._ I don’t even wanna _start_ on the verification process.

The actual work was okay, though, except I started to feel very strongly about words. Not the way I do as a writer, but the way one has opinions about what side they sleep on or which friend to call when they need to vent. One word in particular was my worst nightmare.

Archivist, off the top of your head, what is the definition of “be”? Trick question., There can be up to _thirty-four._ “Be” isn’t just “be,” you see. It’s also “is,” “was,” “were,” “are,” “am,” “been,” and “being.” It’s beryllium and Bachelors of Engineering or Education, bills of exchange, and Black English. People talk about defining “the” all the time, but “the” is a cakewalk compared to defining the state of existing across eight different variations of a word. “The” is only ever “the.”

By now, maybe you’re beginning to understand the state my job would put me in. Psychologically, it’s called “semantic satiation”: having repeated or stared at a word long enough that it loses all meaning and becomes akin to gibberish.

It never leaked into my reading—I could enjoy other peoples’ works just fine—it was only when I tried to turn my own phrases that it’d strike. I’d go on long tangents about words and their synonyms and the semantic differences that separate them. Whole pages would be spent on the etymology of Latin versus Greek roots and the rationalization of one versus the romanticisation of the other. Sometimes, it’d just be the same word or phrase over and over _ad nauseum_.

You know how it goes by now, I’m sure. Gibberish, all of it. I’d look back at the document hours later and find that I couldn’t remember writing half of it—if I was lucky—and the other half was incomprehensible. I ended up writing a lot of horror back then, just to be able to use it all.

But, oddly enough, none of this troubled me. This will sound pretentious, and obvious, but I’ve always enjoyed chaos, especially in writing. I liked pushing ideas to see how far they could go.

The point of art—this is where the pretension really gets going, but I promise it’s just the one sentence—always felt to me like a way to explore the boundaries of understanding, emotion, and communication.

So I wasn’t as alarmed by the gibberish as maybe I should have been. They were emotive, and the people in my social circles actually responded nicely to it. These are, of course, rationalizations for what was probably happening: the Spiral threading its way into my being. I’d like to think both are true.

I can’t tell you in a way that matters how long I spent living like that. It felt infinite, but I must have reached an end eventually. I remember learning about a paradox about something like that, but I can’t recall the name past the name “Zeno”.

As life-changing events always go, the day was uneventful until, a moment after, it wasn’t.

I can’t remember how it caught my eye. I probably rolled my sleeve up to scratch at an itch, and there it was, the first word, sitting smugly in the crook of my left elbow, where my eczema had always been the worst.

Guess. Guess what word it was.

I’ll give you a hint: it has thirty-four definitions.

I’m not sure what I made of it, at first. Some things are so left-field that it doesn’t occur to you to be scared of them. I sort of just looked at it for a good bit. It seemed typed—the font of it had serifs and everything—but it didn’t shine when I rotated my arm, the way ink would. It was kind of itchy, but no more than the base level my skin there always was. I scratched absentmindedly—it becomes a bad habit after a lifetime of it—and the word flaked off under my nails.

At this point, a saner person might’ve assumed… Well, I’m not a saner person, am I? I don’t know what they might’ve thought. My patron is the Spiral, and I knew enough to not know what it was.

I could wax poetic about the nature of “lies,” but the whole point is that it’s incomprehensible. Nothing I say can make full sense of it to you in the way I and my siblings understand it. The closest I can give is this: they’re truths to us, and so we make them true, whether it’s possible or not.

So: I scratched the word “be,” and it flaked off like any other dried skin would. But the itch was still there. That’s the part, weirdly enough, that started to worry me. An itch should stop when it’s scratched, at least for a little. It shouldn’t get worse.

I turned my music up louder and made myself forget about it. Eventually, I actually did.

Until I woke up the next morning. In that same spot was the word “low,” and on my palms were “under” and “beat.”

Sometimes, when your life gets completely disrupted, your body defaults to muscle memory to give your mind the space to process. You may think that description overdramatic—I can’t tell what would be anymore—but again: it was true to me that my life was changed forever, so it was always going to be. If my staff at work could see the words on my skin during the first few stages, they didn’t mention it. I’m sure they’re the only ones who could have seen them then, being the closest to my connection to the Spiral.

I know they were all in on feeding me to it—why else do you drink a gallon of ink in front of your boss—but I haven’t found any of them since my ascension. But I digress.

With every word scratched off, more would show up. My skin hardened with each shedding. Did you know parchment is made of leather? Any leather will do. The words began to come off in whole chunks of letters. Friends and family started being able to see them if I wasn’t fast enough to scratch them off. And then, to keep from worrying them, I had to leave the ones they’d seen.

Except the words never stayed put. Day by day—sometimes even by the hour—they’d delete away one letter at a time and reform as a new word. As more of my skin itched away into the parchment, I found they weren’t just isolated words taunting me from my lexicography, but whole phrases, usually common smalltalk or well-worn adages.

The way the words scratched off changed as well. From flakes, they chipped, then cracked, then chunked.

Finally, one fateful day, they wouldn’t come away from the skin at all. The itch came from under them, and so, to quiet the screaming of my nerves, after hours of the tingling and agonizing urge, in a fit of blind frustration, I dug my nails under for purchase, and I ripped my skin away like wrapping paper.

The light tan of more parchment greeted me under the torn away cross-section. I bled only at the edges. It was as though where once I’d been muscle and bone, I was now only tightly coiled paper.

I say “it was as though” to specify that this was my conjecture at the time. I know now that this is the case.

As for the strip of parchment-skin I’d ripped away, instead of disappearing from my mind as soon as it was gone, it settled politely on the ground in front of me. The phrase on the floor… have you ever felt drawn to a line in a poem? It was like that. I couldn’t stop reading it. Over and over. I remember it to this day, even though it’s wholly unremarkable: veni, vidi, vici. It’s Latin, Julius Caesar: I came, I saw, I conquered. Everyone’s heard it before, especially me, but the phrase was hypnotizing. I reached out and traced the letters with my fingers.

The parchment, my skin, unwound. My fingers slipped through the words as an endless stream of paper, and I watched my arm follow suit, then my torso, then the rest of me. When humpty dumpty was back together again, I found myself sitting on the floor in some library.

The kid who’d apparently summoned me hadn’t even noticed my arrival. He sat in a labyrinth of open books. Latin textbooks.

Please understand. There are so very few who do: what it’s like to be tricked into inhumanity. There are two kinds of avatars: they who embrace and they who are forced to. The former are offered real choices; the latter, empty options. Death or taxes, Archivist, and in our different currencies we must pay up.

It would be easier to be unhinged, to devote myself in my entirety to feeding that which sustains me, but it has never been in my nature to harm. I think that’s partially why the Spiral chose me. It likes people it can break. The Stranger hollows one of all individualism, and the Web pulls strings against one’s will, but the Spiral gorges itself on a cycle of unmaking. It bends so it can break so it can repair so it can bend.

This is not to say it wants to break me of my kindness. Nothing with the Spiral is ever that simple.

The game is what it’s always been between us: how do you define “kindness”? At what point does a murder become a mercy killing, if there is a separation? Is it enough to make sure I only take those who are smiling when they go? I may be a parasite now, but in the words of an old good friend, can you fault a parasite for trying to live? I just want to help. I still do, in a way. The lengths I go to prepare this statement for you surely proves… something. If not that, it still must prove _something_.

I give all I have to offer: all I’ve ever had to offer.

This boy—in his first year of university, studying for a Latin final—was searching desperately for words. And I have so very many extra to give.

It came as natural as eating. I’ve always itched. This time, the scratch peeled off an entire strip of parchment. I knew the words without looking: respice, adspice, prospice. _Look behind, look around, look ahead._

Tearing parchment isn’t silent. He didn’t scream or try to run, now that he’d seen me. I don’t know if it’s because he was sitting—though that’s certainly not stopped others—or if he was hesitating to tread on the books. Maybe he was a test.

_Respice, adspice, prospice._ Over the bare skin of his left wrist. I smoothed it on like a band-aid, and it stuck.

My gift to this boy I’d never met: words he’d been desperately searching for.

He was less than grateful. He wrenched his arm away and finally ran, crumpling some pages and tearing others in his struggle to escape.

I don’t blame him anymore, but at the time, I was quite offended.

It didn’t even occur to me to be worried about him getting away. My first thoughts were for the books he was trampling. I smoothed out the pages, cooed at them. I even reshelved them myself. All the while, another itch was building under the back of my knee: harder and harder to ignore. Indulging it repeated the same result from earlier: I moved through the words and found myself near wherever the boy had run to.

Thus, we played our little game of cat and mouse. I remember thinking it was creepy, but what else was I supposed to do? The further away he got, the more I itched. And the scratched off words brought me back to him.

I did not know what would happen to him, and I watched with sick fascination as my words took over his body, leaked their way under his skin, and eventually poisoned his mind. You’ve… already gotten word—no pun intended—of my work. I won’t waste your time on repeating the small details. I hate plagiarism.

This event—the claiming of my first victim—is when I mark my ascension into an avatar.

My siblings have their titles: Distortion, Sculptor. I am the Stenographer. We all have our jobs. Michael Crew’s demon sang the body electric. I paraphrase an entire being into the seed of a phrase, planting it to grow across their person.

It’s ironic. The words which manifest on me aren’t my own. They’re the thoughts or writings near my potential future or current victims. In a way, I’m always plagiarizing.

(Some great thinkers might argue that was always the case, but… well, to put my thoughts on the matter simply, if I could feed on those thinkers, I would take the rare opportunity to savor every precious second of it.)

My victims lean towards writers. Or, at least, people who often work with words. Anchormen restless in their position, notaries with a touch too much gusto for the job.

At what point does a murder become a mercy killing? Is it enough to make sure I only take those who are smiling when they go? I may be a parasite now, but in a slight butchering of the words of an old, good friend: can you fault a ticker-tapeworm for trying to live?

I’m rambling. I’ve finished my little story, now. It’s just… nice. To tell a story again. I miss writing, when I remember to believe I actually did it.

Forgive me for not delivering my statement in person. My state leaves me mute. I am curious about what would happen were you to “ask” me a question, but I am also a coward. What would be the difference between an entity and an avatar if we ourselves couldn’t feed our patrons?

I would burn this when you’re done, if you can. A lot of words went into this, and it’s better not to risk it, when it comes to whose they might be. Trust me. If you can’t, maybe try laminating it. I’m not actually sure what would work. Go wild.

Read, not dictated,

The Stenographer

JON: Statement ends.

JON: On closer inspection of the scroll, now that I know where it’s from, the pieces sewn together have slightly different coloration. Oxidation of the parchment, I suppose. I can’t imagine how long they’ve been putting this together.

JON: I don’t know why they’ve delivered this to me. It certainly is… the easiest statement I’ve ever gotten from an avatar. And one of the Spiral, no less.

JON: (CONDESCENDING HUFF) I would think a lexicographer would pick a more accurate title. A stenographer is supposed to transcribe in shorthand, and this is fully written out. Their explanation clears the air a little, but still.

JON: Well. Hopefully they aren’t under the impression I owe them a favor now.

JON: End recording.

[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS]

* * *

[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS. THERE’S THE CRACKLING OF A FIRE IN THE BACKGROUND]

JON: Why do I feel like I’m—

JON: Oh, damn it all, how did I forget the date agai—

[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS]


	3. The Stenographer

MARTIN: Time?

JON: Just about. How did you…

MARTIN: Recognized the look. Right, so I’ll just—

JON: I don’t think this’ll be a long one.

MARTIN: Oh! That’s… good? Is that good?

JON: As it can be, I suppose.

MARTIN: Right. So is it… _who_ is it, exactly?

JON: The Stenographer.

MARTIN: I, who?

JON: Spiral avatar preoccupied with words?

[ANOTHER PAUSE]

JON: Statement of Brenton on his roommate, Devon?

[A PAUSE]

JON: Paper skin.

MARTIN: Ah! Right.

JON: (fondly) Do you really remember, or are you just saying that so I’ll stop—

MARTIN: No, I remember! I remember.

JON: (smiling) Right.

MARTIN: (forcefully) Right!

[A PAUSE]

MARTIN: Okay, I’ll, uh— I’ll leave you to it. If you need me, I’ll just be…

[A SMALL HAPPY HUFF]

JON: Thank you, Martin. Be right over.

[FOOTSTEPS FADE OUT.]

[A CLEANSING BREATH AS JON STEELS HIMSELF]

JON: Genial. Adjective, archaic.

  1. Friendly, cheerful. 

> _“I wish we could have formally met under more genial circumstances, but I suppose that was always a pipe dream. Welcome, Archivist, to my amphitheatre.”_




Babel. Noun, archaic.

  1. An ancient city in which, in the Pentateuch’s book of Genesis, the people attempted to build a tower (see: Tower of Babel) to Heaven, and God punished them for their hubris by making the builders all speak different languages.  


> _“My first name for this domain was The Fallout of Babel, but the people in Babel were punished for the act of hubris, not for the passive sin of being alive to witness the world of the Watcher’s Crown.”_

  2. (usually lowercase) A confused, often meaningless, noise made by a number of speakers. 

> _“In this place, speech—for those who could and still choose to speak—is a muscle memory devoid of meaning. The same words define drastically different versions of ‘nothing’ from person to person, resulting in scenes which would make sense in the archaic English but, to them, produces nothing more than a chaotic babel.”_




Insanity. Noun, archaic.

  1. Source, Merriam-Webster: unsoundness of mind or lack of the ability to understand that prevents one from having the mental capacity required by law to enter into a particular relationship, status, or transaction or that releases one from criminal or civil responsibility. 

> _“In the old world, the theater was a source of entertainment, where the audience could escape from the troubles that plagued them for an hour or three or five. Here, the actors rehearse and perform tragedies masked, through their insanity, as choices.”_

  2. Source, anonymous: doing the same thing over and over [sic] again expecting a different result. 

> _“History—when unlearned—repeats itself, and in my domain, where stories and history can no longer be shared and yet are one in the same, the players act out insanity.”_




Cassandra. Noun, proper.

  1. An oracle of antiquity, who was cursed by Apollo to be completely correct in all predictions, but no one would believe her. 

> _“A world of Cassandras, knowing full well the tragedies of those around them, and completely unable to warn them.”_




Historian. Noun, archaic.

  1. Someone who truly understands that people never change. 

> _“Andrew Thornberg was a historian, back when the world made sense to have those. He’s brought the knowledge of his profession with him into my domain. Everyone here is a historian in some way, but Andrew, with his specialty, even moreso. Faceless figures on podiums spout meaningless babel meant to manipulate and weasel their way into pockets with more zeros than the mind can fathom. The “why” isn’t important. What’s important is the “what”: that drivel, while with different words, repeats itself. A war on principles, a bill against matters of medicine. What the shadowed suit in front of Andrew says: ‘thugs’. But in this world where language is alive in a much more literal sense, Andrew alone hears his own name. Locked in the prison of his own semantics and nuance, Andrew pleads premonitions on the ears of his loved ones—though he can’t remember the faces for the life of him. They call him paranoid. Scream shrill notes that amount to nothing more than a dog-whistle.”_




Deuteragonist. Noun, archaic.

  1. The second-most important character to the protagonist in a story, not including the antagonist. 

> _“Reese McMahon has always wondered when life would cast him as a star and not a bit role. The problem is: the world conspires against him. The directors have a personal vendetta against people his age (no matter what age he is), his coworkers are jealous of his potential or prejudiced against him.  
>   
> _ _His teeth, like all of my cast and crew, are typewriter keys, and every word he bangs out prints itself on me. Manifests as a prop in his own drama. He drifts from manuscript to manuscript, from Othello to A Tell-Tale Heart to Crime and Punishment. Ink is sticky, and Reese trudges through an unknown author’s lexicon of tragedies.  
>   
> _ _He stumbles into Romeo Ishiguro’s play, and remembers, from his many years studying drama, the vague outline of Shakespeare’s most famous tale. He tries to warn Romeo, begs anyone to understand, to wait, but it’s all in vain. Romeo Ishiguro drinks the vial. He doesn’t understand why he does, only that a madman is screaming at him, gesturing wildly between the vial, the empty bed, and Romeo, so maybe this will make him stop?”_




Complication. Noun, archaic.

  1. A circumstance which makes a situation more difficult. 

> _“Another complication: one can never tell around here whether something is sentient or not.”_




Epitaph. Noun, archaic.

  1. A short text written in memory of a deceased person.  


> _“Danielle Cipriano’s favorite musical has always been Les Miserables. Partly ego (she played Cosette as a young child) but also because the themes of Valjean’s plight always resonated with her. She mourns him, now. Her feelings for Valjean were real, even if she’s not sure anymore that he wasn’t. When the mind plays tricks, no figment is ever truly imaginary, and in Danielle’s head, she is still Cosette, kneeling in front of Valjean’s gravestone.  
>   
> _ _The part of the gravestone has been unwillingly casted to Amy Patel. She was born to play the role, having practiced through decades’ worth of night terrors she could never fully convince herself were harmless falsities.  
>   
> _ _Danielle writes Valjean’s epitaph in what she believes to be pencil. She writes Valjean’s epitaph in what she believes to be pencil. She forgets, again, and writes Valjean’s epitaph in what she’s absolutely sure is pencil.  
>   
> _ _A faceless elderly woman—a common haunt of Amy’s night terrors, who stands and stares from the end of Amy’s bed—carves words into Amy’s forehead with the razor-sharp tip of a ballpoint pen.  
>   
> _ _Danielle thinks it reads: “He is asleep. Though his mettle was sorely tried, he lived, and when he lost his angel, died. It happened calmly, on its own, the way night comes when day is done”. I know from my collarbone that the shape of her letters read, “And if no one sees you, are you really there at all?”, but in Amy’s mind, that means: “keep watching.”_




Useless. Adjective, archaic.

  1. The state or property of being ineffectual, having no use. 

> _“There’s nothing to be done except to bear witness and drink my fill off the top. You must think the format of an old lexicographer’s statement—in this land with no single language—to be… useless at best, and pathetic at worst.”_




Habit. Noun, archaic.

  1. An acquired behavior, practiced until becoming nearly and/or completely involuntary. 

> _“Old habits die hard, I suppose.”_




Afraid. Verb. Verb: be; 3rd person present: is; 3rd person present: are; 3rd person present: am; past tense: was; past tense: were; gerund or present participle: being; past participle: been.

  1. Exist, be present.
  2. Occur; take place.
  3. Having the state or quality of, specified. 

> _“Etcetera. I won’t take you through all thirty-something definitions. I’m afraid you get the point, but I’m more scared that you still don’t.”_




Archivist. Noun, proper.

  1. A kindred spirit. 

> _“Though perhaps one-sidedly, I always felt a certain kinship with you, Archivist, as someone who could empathize with being tricked into inhumanity with the binding words of those who hold more cards than you could’ve ever anticipated.”_




Insidious. Adjective, archaic.

  1. Proceeding in a gradual, subtle way but with harmful intent and/or effects.  


> _“The words are insidious, aren’t they? They snake their way under the skin, pick and meddle at one’s own sense of self. I lived my humanity by words; my ascended existence, for them. Language is alive, Archivist. Always has been, always will be. I’m sorry you, like the phantoms of the opera you see here, had to find out the hard way.”_




Stenographer. Noun, proper.

  1. The keeper of Babel’s Amphitheater, one of many domains dedicated to the Spiral.  


> _“There’s nothing I can do for them anymore. They could break free of this place if they could only snap themselves out: come to terms with their fears or find an anchor to remind them of their priorities. But anything I do can only sink them further into their misery. And I’m unsure that people who entered this world alone can connect enough to make an anchor anymore. All my domain’s a stage, and the men and others merely victims. We are all star-crossed in this brave new world. I can’t free my victims any more than I can be freed.  
>   
> _ _There’s nothing I can do to help. There’s no benefit to anyone for me to starve my patron’s gnawing hunger anymore. I’ve abandoned my restraint in the old world, and so for the first time, I am, finally, full.  
>   
> _ _It’s ecstasy, Archivist: the scratching of an itch.  
>   
> _ _If you’ve come to finish the job, as my skin’s told me you’ve been doing, I don’t blame you. But I do have a request. I realize I’m in no place to ask anything of you, but there are few people who can grant me this favor. There’s no harm in trying.  
>   
> _ _I think I would like to hear your stories, if that’s okay. You and your partner’s. I’ve heard he’s an amateur poet? It’s been so long since I’ve heard a poem.  
>   
> _ _I don’t have the benefit of the Beholding’s store of information. All I know about either of you is what Helen’s told me and the snippets I’ve gotten where I can see. I’ve asked you a few times if you’ve understood, and…  
>   
> _ _Well. You’ve already been forced through enough words, haven’t you?  
>   
> _ _I both dread and look forward to your decision. I’ll be waiting near the edge of my reach.  
>   
> _ _Dictated but not read,  
>   
> _ _The Stenographer._




[A PAUSE, FOLLOWED BY A DEEP, CALMING BREATH. FOOTSTEPS.]

MARTIN: Hey! All finished?

JON: Just about.

MARTIN: Just ab— What, what does that mean?

JON: How’re you feeling? Do you think you could do with a rest?

MARTIN: ...here?

JON: A little bit from here.

MARTIN: Jon.

JON: (inquisitive hum)

MARTIN: Remember what I said? About the— the cryptic answers?

JON: Oh, uh. The Stenographer asked to hear our stories. I was thinking it might be a good chance for us to take a bit of a break.

MARTIN: And you… trust? This… “Stenographer”?

JON: (purposefully as cryptic as possible, overly academic) I’m not sure it’s really possible to say that you can truly trust—

MARTIN: (put-upon fatigue) Jon.

JON: (fondly) I don’t think they’ll try anything. And if they do, I trust that I can…

MARTIN: Laser them apart?

JON: Sure.

[A PAUSE]

JON: I also think it’d be… good. To be telling my story for a change.

[MARTIN HUMS, THINKING]

MARTIN: Yeah…

[FOOTSTEPS AS THEY BOTH BEGIN WALKING]

MARTIN: Yeah. That does sound nice.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who read through this. I put a lot of my heart and soul into this and it really means the world. I really hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Please leave a comment. I know I say that every time, but this piece is really personal, and I'd really appreciate any and all feedback. Thank you so much.


End file.
